


pécheur

by deltachye



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Challenge Response, Explicit Language, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, One Shot, Reader-Insert, Seven Deadly Sins, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 17:54:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10926999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deltachye/pseuds/deltachye
Summary: [reader x fp jones (ii)]forgive me father, for i have sinned.[In response to the second prompt of the May 2017 Prompt Off]





	pécheur

The things you want most are the worst for you.

Forsythe Pendleton Jones was the failure on Riverdale’s stellar record. He was the salt of Sweetwater River; the forest fire that ate up precious maple trees; the dead rabbits that’d lie on the roadsides. Nobody liked these things, but everybody needed them. Life needed them to turn its big old fuckin’ cycle.

Did _you_ really need _him_? Or did you just think that you did? 

He was a drinker; a smoker; a fuck-it-all-because-we-die-anyways-er. And yet he always found a burst of his forgotten self-control whenever you turned up, smiling crookedly in apology if you ever asked him to quit something. He never did, but around you, he at least tried.

He took and didn’t give; he counted bills like they were lives; he fucked in the front seat and drove away in an empty car. And yet with you he’d always make sure you didn’t go hungry. He’d throw his jacket around you in the cold. He had so much, yet you ended up with so many things of his, because he’d just decided to give them to you.

He had a million things but wanted a million and one; he was a saboteur of the worst kind; a snake that’d fuck you up just because it might’ve been bored. And yet he was kind to you. He was a listener. He was softer. What he wanted from others he never asked from you. He was always content to sit with you, as if he needed nothing more than that.

He was an asshole that’d gloat in your face; he’d never let things go; he believed that karma was his whore and that he’d go to heaven. And yet he’d apologize to you. “I’m sorry” came out of his mouth to you as easily as “fuck off” did to others. He’d admitted his imperfections to you, words traced with grey cigarette smoke on a blue winter night. 

He was ruthless and cold; crossing him meant certain death; the switchblade in his hand was less for show than a sparkly warning gilded with blood. And yet he was patient with you. His hand had never risen to you. Threats had never reached your ears; the only warnings you’d heard from him was when he’d told other people off for your sake.

He was lazy; hardly present; committed to nothing but his own unreliability. And yet he’d never skipped out on you. He was diligent to have your back, his large hand on your shoulder every time you felt yourself slipping. 

He was a sex-addict; he craved manipulation, release; he toyed with people’s bodies like a kid and a wound-up yo-yo. And yet he’d never touched you. His hands had never strayed. You’d seen his eyes, glimmering… but he’d never put a toe past the line. 

But it doesn’t matter how sweet somebody can be. Syrup just makes you sick in the end.

“You’re taking advantage of me.”

Hands that had never strayed were rough on your hips. Smoke burnt your lungs, sharp teeth giving you flashes of hot pain when he bit hard into your neck.

“Your fault for answerin’ a two AM call, girl.”

“I thought it was for Jughead,” you replied coolly, pushing him off easily. You turned to face him, crossing your arms across yourself protectively. “I wouldn’t have come if I’d know you just wanted to fuck.”

“Ain’t that what you want?” he retorted, his head cocking to the side as his eyes dissolved the clothes on your body. You shivered.

“You’re drunk, FP,” you muttered, as if he didn’t know. As if he weren’t _always_ drunk. “Where even is Jughead? Don’t tell me you lost your own damn son.”

“Don’t worry about him. He went to Andrews’ for the night. Nobody here to hear you, if that’s what you’re worried about.” When you said nothing, he feigned a pout, shrugging his arms open to you. “What? Afraid to be seen with me? That it? Think I’ll ruin your rep?”

“Gladys was right for leaving you,” you spat back. “You’re a fucking mess.”

“And you’re a shitty liar. I know you like it dirty. I know you don’t like good guys.” He was back on you again, his hands cold from the cheap refrigerator beer. They slid across your bare skin, making you shudder. His sharp canines returned to your sore skin, coaxing a moan past your lips when his tongue snaked out to lap up your blood. You shuddered away from him.

“You hate me so much, why’re you still here?” he breathed into your ear. The smell of tobacco was strong, but strangely comforting, awakening memories that washed over you like warm seawater.

“I don’t… know.” You made weakly to move away from him, put his hands gripped your shirt, stopping you. He suddenly lifted you easily, slamming your back onto a wall, knocking air out of your lungs with a ragged wheeze. His face smashed against yours as he drank up the remainder of your breath avariciously, leaving your vision splotchy with black after you’d finally clawed him away to desperately gasp for air. 

Maybe it was burning hatred. Humiliation of being under him like this, widespread legs, wet at the disgusting thought of him—and yet, you were still here.

He was awful for you, god, you knew; but people still sucked on cigs and snort and shoot up and down drink after drink and eat and eat and eat and fuck and fuck and fuck and fuck everything up—people still do things they know that’s bad for them. Why? Because it feels _good_.

FP did you. He did you wrong, he did you dirty and he did you _hard_ —and maybe you didn’t need him, but hell, you fucking wanted him.


End file.
